


Waiting

by trillingstar



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Oz (1997)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-13
Updated: 2009-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keller's got blood to spare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surreallis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surreallis/gifts).



> Written for Jenn, who wanted angsty emo porn.  
> 

  
They let him out for the funeral, but he's not allowed into the church along with half the city's cops and the TV crews. It's not because they care about him, second-class con, dangerous skel. They don't want him dirtying up the joint.

There's nothing to do but wait: mourners move from the church to the funeral home, to the gravesite, and he waits. There's an unnamed itch skittering under his skin, an unknown parasite burrowing into his bloodstream. He's jittery from the waiting, snarling at the hacks when they push him into a waiting room. A room for waiting. Not like Oz ain't one big wait.

He's unshackled when they let him into the viewing room and he makes it almost all the way up the aisle when his knees buckle and he falls. Closed casket, but he wants to see, _has_ to see, has to make sure it's El and they didn't make a mistake. He's at the coffin, scrabbling at the catch on the lid when he realizes he's not alone. He tilts his head up and it's her, and he knows he has the advantage because her face is stricken, her eyes full of awe, or maybe wonder. She's reaching out to touch his face and he's carved from stone.

Then she spots the guards on the far wall and her expression flickers from amazed to suspicious. He's dolled up in a jacket and tie; she glances down at his feet, takes in the well-worn work boots and by the time her gaze reaches his face again she's worked up to a thunderous glare. The guys from prison transport watch blankly as she cuffs him, frog marching him down the hall and into the bathroom.

He decides he's in love with the disgust in her eyes. Leaning forward, he breathes deeply, catching another whiff of shame.

She slaps him hard and he stumbles back, his arms moving reflexively, hands straining against the manacles. "Bitch," he whispers.

She sneers at him. "Screw you."

Maybe it's not fear. Maybe it's rage. He grins.

"You smug son-of-a-bitch. How can you-" She cuts herself off. "You're not welcome here."

He lets his body fall into the unconscious pose of Elliot Stabler, Marine-at-rest: loose shoulders, chin tilted up, powerful legs firmly planted on the floor. He looks down his nose at her. "You sure?"

He's impressed that her expressive face remains smooth and masked, but her eyes show it all, even the fact that she's trying to hide. There's some fear, 'cause she wouldn't be a good cop without it, and some anger too. Mostly there's a bone-deep despair and crushing, unfulfilled longing that he sees in Toby's eyes every day.

She licks her lips and his eyes track the movement.

"You're a bastard," she says quietly.

He can't disagree.  


~  


Her teeth sink into his bottom lip again and he bucks up, nearly dislodging her from his lap. She tightens her thighs around his and bites again, demanding his blood.

Blood, he can spare.

He's propped on the toilet, fly open, tie pulled free, buttons from his shirt scattered around them. She's got one hand wrapped around his throat. Her fingernails scratch up and down his chest, his shirt loose enough to see the tattoo on his arm, and she looks there often. He leans back against the wall, the metal of his cuffs tinging against the ceramic. He lets her rage wash over him, kisses her fiercely, groans into her mouth and against the salty wet skin of her neck.

He supports all of her weight on his chest and legs as she sags against him. The fight's still there and he'll leave with more open wounds than he expected. She starts a new rhythm, a quickstep of soft undulation and squeezes, and he twists his hand, wishing he could touch her hair. Her touch is light and she levers herself up with a palm on his chest, then down again with a noise like a sob.

She won't look at him and he can't look away from her. Her skin's translucent in the fluorescent light, stretched tightly across her shoulders and pale, even paler than his, and he lives in a windowless box. Her hair smells like flowers.

He pushes up, helping, watching her breasts bounce slowly under her dress. She grinds down on him, the fabric fluttering against his hips on every stroke, a little black flag of death.

She cries out when she comes. "Elliot!" Her voice is raw and honest and Keller shuts his eyes against the truth.

"Is it, is he," he starts to ask. He gasps when her hand grasps his cock.

"Yes," she murmurs. She knows exactly what he's asking. "You don't want to see. You don't want to see him."

Keller swallows with difficulty.

It's their only moment of tenderness.  



End file.
